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Richard and the Duke of Norfolk, who had not yet emerged from the Yorkist’s ornate pavilion. It rose golden behind the lines of troops. A standard with the Royal Coat of Arms for England fluttered at the entrance. The top half beneath a jeweled crown bore three French crosses and three lions passant while the bottom half-reversed the same images. Beneath the shieldin lettering large enough for all to read was the monarchy’s motto in French: Dieu et mon droit (“God and my right”).
    The Trickster nodded. Very apt. The bankers think of themselves as barons and untouchable. But I can bring every one of them bad fortune whenever I please .
    The tent flap swung open and Caine watched Ketterman stride through the men at arms. He wore a metal cuirass over chainmail armor, mailed gloves, greaves, and a helmet with a face guard. On his shoulder was a white rose surrounded by the colors of his house—black and red. He yelled at everyone and kicked the young page who held his sword.
    Caine took his eyes off his target and checked the field. The armies were lining up on opposite sides, readying for the horn blast that would send them hurtling across the field at each other. The early morning sun glinted off chainmail and helmets. Pennants showing the red rose of Lancaster and the white rose of York fluttered in the breeze. These were anachronisms, of course. In the real dynastic wars for control of England, neither the House of Lancaster nor the House of York had chosen a rose as their emblem. To which gods each side prayed, Caine was not sure, but he was sure the Trickster had been there, bringing good and bad fortune to each side.
    Any moment now, Caine thought. A horn sounded once. The re-enactors readied themselves. Another blast and they raised their weapons—harmless foam maces and broadswords—high into the air. He checked his own weapon. The staff concealed a tiny needle coated with ethyldichloroarsine , a nerve agent that caused burning pain, sneezing, coughing, vomiting, and pulmonary edema—followed by death.
    A third wail from the horn and a great yell rose from nearly five hundred throats. The lines charged each other.
    The Trickster zigzagged through the melee, never taking his eyes from his quarry. Reveling in the chaos, he avoided battle with Yorkists when he could. When forced, he quickly dispatched opponents with sharp blows from his staff to the soft tissue behind the knee, knocking them down and leaving them unharmed. But at last Ketterman stood in front of him. The man’s faceplate had swung open. He was four inches taller than Caine and sneered at him.
    â€œHenry Tudor dispatches a fat old man to fight me. Let the usurper send a champion who is worthy.” He raised his foam broadsword to strike.
    â€œIt isn’t Henry Tudor I fight for,” Caine said.
    Ketterman’s blow halted in the air above the Trickster’s head. “”What is this?”
    Taking advantage of the bigger man’s hesitation, Caine jammed the staff into the armpit at the weakest part of the armor and released the dart. The thin needle slipped easily through the chainmail’s linked metal rings. Ketterman jerked once. “What!” he gasped. He tried to take a step and fell to his knees. His face contorted in a grimace. Hands clawed at his cuirass and he cried out against the sharp itching pain. He slid over onto his side. Violent coughing wracked him and his arms fell shaking to the ground. “Who are you?” he rasped.
    The Trickster watched the banker struggle, his movements growing weaker. Panic filled the man’s eyes. He could no longer speak. Bloody foam rimmed his mouth. Caine leaned in close and whispered, “Today I am your bad fortune.” He closed the faceplate. Turning slowly, he saw that the battle had by-passed him. He stared down at Ketterman who now lay still as a corpse, though he wasn’t yet dead. That would come much later after much